


A Kiss Is…

by bowie28



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Ficlets, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, established-relationship, first-time, second-person-pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowie28/pseuds/bowie28
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a Renaissance man such as Dr. Reid, a kiss can mean a lot of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss Is…

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this article](http://www.skywriting.net/inspirational/humor/kiss.html) I found randomly while researching for my real job. Feedback makes me happy (and less lazy).
> 
> **Beta:** [](http://runriggers.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://runriggers.livejournal.com/)**runriggers**
> 
> **Warning:** fluff + angst + some sex / second-person POV  
> **Spoiler:** Up to 5x11  
> **Disclaimer:** Written for fun, not money. I own nothing but the plot.

**A Kiss Is…**

** _…infinity because it is two divided by nothing. (Algebra)_ **

Cocooned in strong arms against a broad chest, warm, wet, sated, loved, undeserved, you listened. The breathing was slowing down, hot and moist on your neck, the heartbeat pounding, strong, stubborn against your back. Three forbidden words rang in your ears, churned your insides. Your eyes found the door, feet itched to run, but damp fingers found your own, entwining, holding on, pulling in, and you sank back, down and down. You turned, like a boy caught red-handed, wishing you had been mute while he had been deaf. Somehow, despite the track marks and the stab wounds, his lips found yours. Despite Tobias Hankel and George Foyet, his kiss was soft and sweet, echoing those same three words.

 

 

** _…the shortest distance between two lips. (Geometry)_ **

The cabin was dry and cold so you pressed on, needing more of that warmth. The plane hummed blissfully, urging you to do the same. _Hmm_, you pressed once more, adjusting your pillow, warm, firm, angular? Your eyes pried open, took in the dim light and close space, cheek absorbing the familiar warmness. You jumped, muttering a low, automatic ‘sorry.’

“’s all right. Everybody’s out.” The voice was awake.

“Shouldn’t anyway.” You couldn’t look.

“I’ll draw the line when you start drooling.”

You turned then. In starlit darkness the smile you saw was small but open and easy and exclusive, blinding out everything but those lips. A calculation formed in the back of your mind: lines, angles, distance, speed, time, but right before you could see the answer, your own lips betrayed. Pressing, seeking, tasting, sighing, humming. _Hmm._

“Sorry.” You murmured against the lips.

A snicker. “You’re not.”

 

 

** _…the contraction of mouth due to the expansion of the heart. (Physics)_ **

“I’m twenty-seven.” The ceiling had a weird pattern.

Hands pulled off your shoes, one then the other. “You are.”

The voice was far away. The pattern changed, moving; your eyes followed it until the familiar face blocked the way.

“Hey, you’re here.” You smiled stupidly, recognizing one of your few good dreams.

A sigh. “I told you. The bartender called me.” A thumb brushed away your hair, tracing your temple, warm, tingling. _Hmm._

“You told us you went to see your mother.”

“I hate birthday parties.”

A faint smile. “I know you do.”

“Sorry I lied.”

“Just try to sleep.” The voice was soft, forgiving, understanding; the fingers leaving.

You caught the hand. “Don’t go.”

“I can’t stay.”

“Just for a little while.”

A nod. “Okay.” The mattress sank by your side, another hand on your head, stroking your hair.

_Hmm._ You closed your eyes. “I missed this.” You’d missed the aftershave. You’d missed being this close, close enough to smell the aftershave.

“You really shouldn’t be drinking.” The voice was thick with concern.

Your heart swelled. You had to smile, open your eyes. “I missed you scolding me.”

A frown. The loose red tie was crimson in the dim light. Your hand found its tail.

“You think I’ll forget in the morning? Eidetic memory and all?”

“Forget what?”

“This.” You tugged at the tie lightly, pulling it until the mouth met your own._ Hmm. _

_Hmm. _

_Hmm. _

You could still taste the vomit as JJ briefed the team’s new case, recalling all the curses over the toilet. Those and the aftershave and the warm mouth and the humming back and the red tie that was now staring back at you from across the round table. You needed aspirin.

That and a new boss.

 

 

** _…the reaction of the interaction between two hearts. (Chemistry)_ **

Coffee was good for you up until certain amount of consumption but somehow the knowledge—all the studies, all the statistics never stopped you from filling up your seventh cup ofthe day or making a fresh pot for your boss (well, _former_ boss) when you were getting ready to head home.

“I always thought the last pot tasted different.”

You knew the voice. He was there when you turned, an empty mug in his hand. 

“Better,” he added.

You felt your face burn. “I put in a bit of cocoa.”

He nodded, no smile in sight but the air was light, unlike most of the day. Most of _these_ days.

You bit down onyour lip, didn’t want to smile over an appreciation that trivial.

He was moving toward you. No, the coffee machine.

“You never asked me...” He put down the mug. “…if I was okay.”

You couldn’t move, clutching at your stupid crutches. The pain you were seeing on his face, you identified with it too much.

“You remember the last time you felt truly happy?”

It was unnatural to see Aaron Hotchner like this, seeking comfort openly, being human openly.

“Probably when my mom still tucked me in, reading me Proust.”

“Proust?”

“It’s the end that counts,” you clarified, remembering. “Her kiss on my forehead.”

You spotted the light in those eyes, then the saddest smile.

“Jack loved that too.”

Your whole being ached, and you weren’t being figurative. You could list all the bodily chemicals that made the phenomenon possible, knew why they made you react the way you did next.

He was warm when you pressed your lips against the skin above his brow. The faint scents of his hair, breaths, weariness, surrender made you feel out of place, out of rights, but you guessed you didn’t care.

“Good night.”

He didn’t move, said nothing, barely nodded before turning to the coffee machine.

You limped out of the break room. Your leg hurt like hell.

 

 

** _…both infectious and antiseptic. (Dentistry)_ **

The skin was burning under your fingers. You knead, rubbed out the heat, keeping the hips in place. You hummed around him, low and deep, hand fondled the tight warm sacks, drawing out strangled moans. Strong fingers carded through your hair, urging, protesting, out of sync. You looked up, his eyes wide and dark. You smiled even though you couldn’t technically. He sank back into the sofa, giving in, letting you exorcize the fiery demon. When he finally combusted, bursting on your tongue, burning down your throat, you felt high, feverish, stupid, happy. He shivered as you climbed up and settled on his lap. His shaky hand found your face, thumb wiped off the missed spot on the corner of your lips.

“You’re being childish.” His eyes were heavy with bliss and drugs.

“Should have just let me kiss you.”

“Moot point now, isn’t it?”

You smiled in triumph and leaned in to claim your reward. He let you.

“Did you know kissing helps boost your immune system?” you asked. “By exchanging bacteria through a kiss, you’re stimulating your internal defense mechanism.”

“I doubt it works when one of us is sick.”

“Wrong,” you said, reaching for the phone.

“What are you doing?”

You hit the speed dial. “Now we _both_ need to call in sick of course.”  

 

 

** _…a credit because it is profitable when returned. (Accounting)_ **

A cry woke you, only this time it wasn’t your own. Your eyes flew open. He was already on his feet, pulling on sweat pants and T-shirt.

“Go back to sleep.”

You grunted an ‘okay’ into the pillow, tightening the covers around your bare body, watching him slip out the door. The light from the hallway made the room glow and you closed your eyes. It’d been months and you’d gotten used to _this_, but you still hated it, the way it always left him restless and hollow afterward.

You woke again when the mattress sank. The warmness radiated under the covers and you reached out blindly. He pulled you in and you could imagine those dark brows knitting on his forehead as he let you settle between his arm and torso.

“Sorry about that.”

You loved how soft his T-shirt was against your skin.

“’s all right.”

“They said he was getting better.”

The stroke of fingers through your hair made you purr. You felt a little guilty.

“No expiration date.”

A questioning sound made you open your eyes. He had a quizzical brow.

“Nightmares,” you clarified. “They have no expiration date.”

He blinked. You suddenly felt out of place.

“I just hate seeing him cry.”

His eyes were on you, tired, destitute. Something in you bled. Your hand found his worn shirt, the fabric bundled between your fingers, and you pulled him down until your lips met his. You felt his breath hitch but you didn’t let go, you sucked until he gave way.

When you finally felt him gasp, you realized you were gasping too, for air, for things you hadn’t known you’d been missing, needing. You let him pull away.

He was smiling now, bright, warm, open, and it made you smile. You’d trade a whole minute of oxygen shortage every time if it got Aaron Hotchner to smile like that in return.    

 

 

** _…that thing for which the demand is always higher than the supply. (Economics)_ **

It happened sometimes, by now you’d gotten used to them, the impulses—through the one-way glass in the investigation rooms, across dozens of people in the courtroom, from the shallow grave in the dark cemetery—the impulses you’d used to label as juvenile, impractical, used to wonder if they would ever go away.

The local officers were dispatched from the station along with the team’s latest profile. JJ went with the mayor’s assistant while Morgan and Emily went with the lead detective. Hotch looked at you from the white board with a deep frown. You swallowed.

“Where were you, kid?”

You jumped at the hand on your shoulder. Rossi gave you a look when you turned.

“Yeah, where were you?” Another voice came.

You turned to the other side. Hotch was there, an opened manila folder in hand, eyes on you, waiting.

You turned back to Rossi, felt as if you’d been trapped in one of those Chaplin movies where things moved way too fast. Rossi chuckled, exchanged amused looks with the man behind you before excusing himself to call Garcia.

“Are you all right?”

Hotch was looking at you, confusion had turned into concern. It made your face burn.

“I was just…” You looked around. The station was almost empty. Almost. “Elsewhere.”

“And where was that?” The dark eyes were searching.

You leaned in. “Somewhere I could kiss you any time I want.”

 

 

** _…persecution for the child, ecstasy for youth, and homage for the old. (Philosophy)_ **

When your dad had walked out on you, he’d taken something with him, the growth you couldn’t learn and achieve from any text books. You’d grown a few more years when Gideon had taken you in, but when he’d left, he’d taken those years with him too. Since then you’d been collecting, keeping score, and you were about fifteen when you showed up at Hotch’s door unannounced with some lame excuse about your past custodial interview together. When he kissed you in the middle of his living room, you grew a year older. When you resisted (out of shock and doubts) and he wouldn’t let you, you grew another two. When he whispered how long he’d been waiting to do this, you reached twenty. When he trailed small kisses down your neck and told you to undress, you were twenty-two. When he let you do the same to him, you turned twenty-four. When he kissed you through the piercing pain, you reached twenty-six. When his mouth found yours, catching your cries of ecstasy, you passed twenty-seven. When he chanted your name and finally let go, and you kissed him again and again, you felt ten, twenty-eight, fourteen billion. And you were fine with it because when he kissed you back and asked you to spend the night, he too looked ten, forty-three, fourteen billion.

 

 

** _…the juxtaposition of two orbicularis oris muscles in the state of contraction. (Physiology)_ **

It was a rare occasion, like an annual celestial phenomena, to wake up and have nothing else to do and nowhere else to be. Just this little expedition in your own bed. The prospects made you smile and you placed another kiss on the warm chest.

He stirred, making an objecting sound, the sound you’d memorized, learned to cherish. You moved lower, pressing your lips on his abdomen, waiting for the same sound and the vibration that accompanied it. You smiled against the skin when it came.

“Whatchadoin?”

“Exploring,” you said, eyeing the sleepy man.

A chuckle came. “So a scientist during the day, a nudist at night.”

“Naturist,” you corrected him, kissing the heaving rip cage.

Another chuckle and you pushed yourself up on one elbow. His face was open, hair ruffled, un-Hotchner-like, adorable, his eyes on you, still hazy with sleep, hand resting on the curve of your back.

“And at its core, naturists are scientists, and scientists never stop exploring.”

A smile broke on his face and you leaned in, nuzzling his cheek so you could kiss the skin below his jaw. You felt him shiver.

“And what did you learn?”

You smiled against the cheek before moving down. “Kissing is a complex behavior.” Your lips found his neck, feeling the vein pulsing underneath. “It requires significant muscular coordination.” His breath hitched. You smiled. “A total of thirty-four facial muscles and one hundred and twelve postural muscles are used during a kiss.”

Another peck on his chin and you found yourself lying half on top of his body. Your eyes met his then. They were dark, longing.

“The most important muscle involved is the orbicularis oris muscle, which is used to pucker the lips,” you said, planting another one on the corner of his mouth. “Informally known as the kissing muscle.”

Propping on his chest like a puppy, you had a blissful smile on your face. His groan took you by surprise, and when he pulled you down and sealed both your mouths, you gasped and held on. It was then that you felt his tongue against your lips and his hard-on against your hip. They made your insides burn, melting you down, and you let him in.  

When he finally let go of you, you panted, “In the case of the French kiss, the tongue is also an important part.”

Another groan and he was flipping you over until you laid bare under him, and you giggled as his stubble scratched your cheek when he recaptured your mouth, setting both of you on the rest of the expedition.

 

 

_“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for your love is more delightful than wine.”_

The Bible - Solomon's Song of Songs 1:2


End file.
